


la gaudière

by deanssammy (babylxxrry)



Series: the dictionary of obscure sorrows [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Other, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 09:22:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17916113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babylxxrry/pseuds/deanssammy
Summary: la gaudière: n. the glint of goodness inside people, which you can only find by sloshing them back and forth in your mind until everything dark and gray and common falls away, leaving behind a constellation at the bottom of the pan—a rare element trapped in exposed bedrock, washed there by a storm somewhere upstream.sam thinks a lot of people don't understand dean. he does.





	la gaudière

**Author's Note:**

> well it's been a hot minute since i wrote a dos, but fs fandom has been tiring and i honestly just wanted to do something for myself/write something COMPLETELY unrelated to skating.  
> also i'm tired of censoring myself and my ships so what better way to let that out than some ~incesty goodness~,,,,, sadly this isn't Distinctly Wincest but it's def in there lmfao  
> as per usual, this kinda went away from the original word/prompt but eh 
> 
> also, very small warning for a brief mention of blood/injury.
> 
> enjoy !

Sam thinks a lot of people get it wrong when it comes to Dean. They see the bravado, the sass, the ability to charm his way into people’s lives and right back out of them as he sees fit.  They see the way he can pick up the coldest of girls with that easy, friendly manner of his. They see the way his hands linger on soft waists, asses, breasts. And they assume that that’s all there is to him. Some of them, the smart ones, might pick up on something more, might realize that so much of what he does is all for show, just surface detailing to hide the true façade underneath. Those people are few and far between, so for the most part, Dean flies through life as a snarky, gun-slinging son of a bitch.

And that’s fine by Sam, fine by both of them, because Dean rarely ever lets his guard down long enough to show his true colors. Invariably, it’s always for Sam. There’s no one else that gets to see Dean at his most vulnerable. There’s no one else that gets to watch Dean fall apart and put himself back together, piece by shimmering piece. Because Sam is, well, _Sam_. He’s seen it all. And he knows Dean trusts him more than anyone else on the entire planet, past, present, and future.

People don’t get to see the way Dean brushes Sam’s hair out of his eyes when they eat dinner together, a cocky little smirk playing on his lips as he teases Sam about getting a haircut. Sam will tease him back, bat at his hand, leans into Dean’s fingers lingering behind his ear. And for a moment, they’re young and happy and free of all the scars that’ve accumulated on their souls and bodies over the decades.

People don’t get to see the way Sam will pick _Die Hard_ again, for the third movie night in a row, because Dean is a sucker for it. They don’t get to see the way Dean just _knows_ when it’s a _Die Hard_ night, because he can see Sam rolling his eyes fondly at the movie shelf, or he because hears the menu theme start up. Dean’s a sappy guy, for someone who scoffs at Sam’s keepsakes box and sighs deeply whenever they encounter a family member too attached to an object tying a relative’s spirit to the mortal plane. _Die Hard_ nights are also grilled cheese and tomato soup night. It’s cheap white bread and that weird orangey plastic-wrapped excuse for a square of cheese fried up in too much butter, and it’s canned tomato soup that’s probably a few days past expiration, and it’s a glass of cold milk. It’s _them_ , when they were little and it was the only thing Dean knew how to make that wasn’t cereal, canned spaghetti-o’s, or cold sandwiches.  

And people never, ever get to see the tenderness with which they tend to each other’s wounds and illnesses. Countless nights have been spent quietly stitching each other up, cleaning and suturing and bandaging and pressing get-better kisses on the bandages. Sam mindlessly traces the scars on his skin sometimes, usually before he falls asleep, each location as familiar to him as the day they were made. He thinks he might know Dean’s scars even more intimately, though, could tell you how many stitches most of them took, because each stitch-tug made Dean grit his teeth and tighten his jaw, and Sam _remembers_. He remembers some nights stumbling into their motel room, sore and tired and bleeding from ten different places apiece. He remembers stripping off shirts and pants and sitting on scratchy fleece blankets, holding rough white towels to the biggest lacerations while they wordlessly evaluate themselves and each other to decide who has the most life-threatening injuries to tend to first. Sam remembers ruby-red blood on discarded towels. He remembers nights when there was too much red on the towels and not enough in Dean’s cheeks, and he’s sure Dean remembers nights like that for him, in turn. He remembers sitting up all night by Dean’s side, waiting, hoping, praying to a God who doesn’t care, that the fever would break and Dean would breathe easier. Somewhere, vaguely, Sam remembers Dean doing the same for him, his eyes soft and worried and his hands cool against Sam’s hot forehead. Late night runs to 24-hour convenience stores to pick up off-brand flu medicine, early morning trips to local diners for takeout. Getting crumbs on the sheets and sitting cross-legged watching Saturday cartoons on old, static-y TV screens. Changing bandages and checking stitches and slathering on antibiotics and carefully cleaning raw, tender new skin.

These are the kinds of things only Sam gets to see. Maybe one or two others in their past, but never more.

And then there’s Dean things that are _only Sam, and only ever will be Sam_ , and Sam thinks those might be his favorite Dean things. He loves every Dean thing, but the things that are _his_ , and his alone, are his favorite.

Those are the nights spent close, huddled in one bed for warmth or for safety or for convenience as kids. Those are the nights spent close, curled around each other as adults, after one of them almost dies or almost leaves or comes back or they just _need_ it.

Those are the times they come back from a successful hunt, high on adrenaline and endorphins and someone kisses someone else and then their clothes are on the floor and the headboard is slamming into the wall and there’s laughter and banter and orgasms and cleaning the blood of whatever dead creature it was off each other after the fact. Then there’s more laughter about the poor maids finding come and (copious) bloodstains on the sheets in the morning, and Sam will suggest they put the sheets to soak in the bathtub. Dean always reminds him that they have to shower in the morning, and Sam rolls his eyes. _Shower now, dumbass, I’m not sleeping with you if you’ve got come on you. It sticks, you know that, Dean, for fuck’s sake._ And Dean will punch him in the shoulder, tell him off for “talking back”, and Sam laughs at his impression of John. They’ll shower, Sam will set the sheets to soak in the tub, and they’ll fall asleep in each other’s arms.

Then there are times they fight about the stupidest little things, and sometimes that turns into Dean slamming Sam against the wall, pressing their mouths together with bruising force, or it turns into Sam throwing Dean onto a bed, covering his body with his own, pinning him down into the shitty mattress. And when they’re fucked out and tired, they apologize without words, forgiveness given in the form of soft hands and gentle, cautious kisses and watching each other until they fall asleep together. They don’t talk about it in the morning, because there’s no need to. They’ve said everything that’s needed to be said, and yeah, it’ll happen again, but that’s not an issue, not really. It’s just how things are.

So yeah, Sam thinks a lot of people don’t understand Dean. A lot of people don’t understand _them_ , as Hunters, as lovers, as brothers, as partners in crime and partners in life. As Sam and Dean.

But it’s okay. They don’t need to understand. Sam understands Dean, and he knows Dean understands him. That’s all.

 

 

-fin.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!  
> please leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed this change of pace (?) from the usual angstiness of the dos drabbles ! i know i did :D


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